


More Than You Could Ever Know

by DizzyRedhead



Series: All I Want For Christmas [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Fake/Pretend Relationship, Get Together, M/M, Mutual Pining, Sneaky Nick Fury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-29
Updated: 2015-12-14
Packaged: 2018-05-03 21:44:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5307935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DizzyRedhead/pseuds/DizzyRedhead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Coulson and Barton have to go undercover as newlyweds for the holidays, they're both upset. Neither of them wants to be given the thing they want most, only to have it taken away. But the longer the mission goes on, the more they forget that it isn't real. Can they have what they want most? Or will it all be snatched away when everything goes back to normal?</p>
<p>Warnings for seriously sappy mutual pining, torturing them with what they think they can't have, and a truly reprehensible amount of Christmas cookies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. What's the Big Deal?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [superangsty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/superangsty/gifts).



> For [superangsty](http://archiveofourown.org/users/superangsty/pseuds/superangsty) who requested fake/pretend relationship going home for Christmas or being stuck in a safehouse over Christmas. I took some liberties with the prompts, but I hope you enjoy it anyway.
> 
> Big, huge, enormous thanks to [Faeleverte](http://faeleverte.tumblr.com) for inspiring me with her incredible Clint/Coulson fics, beta reading, cheerleading, and just in general holding my hand as I took these first shaky steps into writing this pairing. This fic would not be even half as good without her!!!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint and Phil are going to have to go undercover! And pretend to be married! To each other!
> 
> Or, Natasha and Sitwell are unsympathetic and Nick Fury is a manipulative bastard.

"Barton, with me," Coulson ordered, not even looking up from the file in his hands.

Clint dropped from the nearest vent and fell into step, a half-step behind Coulson. All the SHIELD agents in the hallway pretended not to notice, except for one brand-new junior agent, who shut his mouth quickly when he realized everyone else was resolutely ignoring the spontaneously appearing archer.

"What's up, boss?" Clint asked, winking at the poor bewildered junior agent as they walked by.

"Fury wants to see us in his office," Coulson said.

"Both of us?" Clint said, wracking his brain for what he might have done to be called onto the carpet and coming up with far, far too many options for comfort, but none of them had involved Coulson. "Is this about--"

"Let me stop you before you can start what will undoubtedly be a very long list. I don't know exactly what it's about," Coulson said, his eyes still on the file, but one corner of his mouth quirked up in the way that never failed to make Clint feel warm and happy.

Clint smirked a little in return, sure that Coulson could see it. "Gonna protect me, boss?"

"Not if you don't deserve it," Coulson answered, nodding at Fury's assistant as he walked past her desk and into the office.

Clint winced and followed.

* * *

"Senator Miller," Fury said, gesturing to his right toward the holographic display on his office wall. Phil and Barton both turned in their seats to look. "Senior senator from Illinois, currently co-sponsoring legislation that, among other things, will secure SHIELD funding for the next five years, not that anybody will ever read far enough into the fine print to find that out. He's catching some flack for it, since the official purpose is to make it illegal for employers to fire someone based on their sexual orientation."

"What kind of flack?" Phil asked after a few seconds to be sure that his tone was appropriately mild. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Barton flinch in the chair next to him. Maybe he hadn't quite succeeded.

"Death threats," Fury said. "Not just him, but his family. Secret service has him covered, but his daughter has refused a detail."

"So he came to us," Phil finished.

"He came to us," Fury confirmed. "I need you and Barton on this, undercover. SHIELD has purchased a house in the neighborhood. You two will go in as newlyweds, ready to spend the holiday season in your first house together.”

“Newlyweds?” Clint said, a note of--something in his voice. Phil couldn’t quite parse it, too busy glaring daggers across the desk at his boss and soon to be ex-best friend.  _You son of a bitch_ , he thought as loudly as he could. Nick just gave him back an inscrutable stare.

“Why us?” Barton asked, and Phil cringed internally at his slightly panicked tone. “I mean, two guys, won’t that be pretty obvious? She’d have to suspect something, right? Wouldn’t it make more sense to send one of us in with a female agent?”

Nick sighed. “No, Barton, it wouldn’t make more sense, because the senator’s daughter and her wife are more likely to connect with the two of you while you’re playing house. The neighborhood’s very friendly for gay couples, from what I understand. And the senator will give you an introduction, so you’ll have an in. Think of it as a vacation.”

Phil opened his mouth, then closed it again. He had enough years of experience with Nick Fury in stubborn mode to realize when argument was futile. “When do we leave?”

“Five days,” Fury said. “You’ll have a ‘honeymoon’ courtesy of SHIELD, give you a week to get into character, and then the big move-in. You’ll have the details of your covers by the end of the day. Any other questions?”

“No, sir,” Phil said crisply, hearing Barton mumble the same thing next to him. He turned on his heel and stalked out, feeling Barton follow along without having to look.

“Planning meeting, my office, 0900 tomorrow morning,” Phil ordered, trying to keep the sharpness out of his tone. It wasn’t Barton that he was pissed at, after all.

“You got it, boss,” Barton answered, clearly shooting for his usual insouciance and failing to hit the mark.

Phil knew exactly when Barton disappeared into the ventilation shafts, the absence of him almost palpable. But he also knew that Barton liked to watch the activity in the halls when he was feeling agitated, so he waited until he was safely inside his office and in the space by the door that wasn't visible from the vent to let his shoulders slump, to scrub his hands over his face.

He allowed himself five minutes to contemplate the possibility of spending weeks, or even months, pretending to be Clint Barton’s husband, the torturous chance to have all those little intimacies, and what it would be like when it was taken away at the end of the mission. Then he tucked his feelings neatly out of sight, straightened his tie, squared his shoulders, and went back to what he did best--work.

* * *

“What’s the big deal?” Natasha asked, twirling fettucine onto her fork. Her barely contained eyeroll was clearly visible even in the dim light of their favorite Italian restaurant. “It’s an undercover mission. You do those all the time.”

“Not like this,” Clint complained from across the table, staring morosely at his manicotti. Natasha would deny having any sentimental attachments, but Clint figured it said something that they kept coming back to the very first restaurant he'd ever brought her to, especially when he was upset about something. If only he could get his stomach to stop jumping enough to actually eat his food.

She raised her eyebrows at him. He tried to fend her off by stuffing garlic bread into his mouth, the state of his stomach notwithstanding, but eventually he had to chew and swallow and, just like he knew they would, the words came pouring out. There wasn't a man born who could resist the Black Widow’s eyebrows.

“I have to pretend to be married! To Coulson! How the hell am I supposed to handle that?”

The eyebrows stayed where they were. “What’s the problem? You've been undercover together before. After the way you’ve bitched and moaned about having to work with anybody else, I’m not surprised Fury put you two together on this. Coulson’s the only one who can really handle you.”

“I wish.” The words slipped out of their own volition, and the eyebrows were joined by a tiny smirk. Clint dropped his head to the table, narrowly missing his plate; clearly that was a better place for it, since he wasn't using it for anything useful.

“So you don’t want to play house with Coulson?” Nat’s voice was unexpectedly gentle, but still clearly disbelieving.

“No, I do,” Clint said, his voice slightly muffled by the linen tablecloth. “I want it a lot. I want it to be real. And it’s not going to be. I get to have it, but only for a little while. And then I’ll know what it was like to have it, but I won’t have it anymore. And that...that’s just going to suck.”

“Probably,” she said matter-of-factly. “Or you could grow a pair and let him know that you want it to be real.”

He shook his head. “You should’ve seen him in Fury’s office; he was so pissed about pretending to be married to me. No chance he'd want the real thing.”

Natasha shook her head at him, but he could see the fondness behind the exasperation. “Eat your dinner, Котик.”

“Am not,” Clint grumbled, but he did as he was told. If he was going to be tortured, at least he’d be well fed first.

* * *

“What’s the big deal?” Sitwell asked, sliding into the booth at the back corner of the unofficial SHIELD agents' bar and handing Phil's beer across the table. “Sounds like a cushy mission to me. You could be out in the Sandbox or the Rockpile again. Or fucking South America; I hear the jungle is lovely this time of year. Instead you get to head to suburbia for the holidays.”

“With Barton,” Phil pointed out. “Pretending to be married.”

Jasper rolled his eyes. “Oh, no. You have to pretend to be married to the guy you’ve been crushing on like a twelve-year-old crushes on a pop star. This is the worst Christmas ever.”

“It won’t be real!” Phil snapped. “It’s like some kind of torture. I get to have exactly what I want, but I can’t keep it.”

“You could, though,” Jasper said, polishing his glasses, “if you would just get over yourself and ask the man out so I don’t have to watch you pine anymore.”

Phil laughed humorlessly. “Not a chance. You should have heard him in Fury’s office. Just thinking about the mission had him freaking out. He couldn't even look at me.”

“Well, then, maybe you’ll get lucky and he'll fall off a roof and not be able to do it,” Jasper said, clearly at the end of his patience. “But either way, you get to spend the holidays in a nice little four-bedroom while I have to wrangle your caseload. So tell me about this 067; there’s gotta be more than what’s in the file.”

Phil leaned back in his seat and organized his thoughts, pushing his feelings into the mental box he’d labeled To Deal With Later, and tried to ignore the sinking feeling that the box was about to get a hell of a lot bigger.

* * *

Nick Fury wasn’t even a little surprised when he looked up to see Natasha Romanoff sitting in one of the visitor’s chairs in front of his desk, even though he hadn’t heard the door open.

“Something I can do for you, Agent Romanoff?” he asked mildly, turning his eyes back to the files open on his desk.

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” she asked ominously.

He sighed. “Pretty damn sure. You got a problem with that?”

“Well, I thought Robinson in Accounting had November in the pool, but the last time I checked, your name was there instead,” she said, examining her nails. “He’s gonna be pissed.”

“Let him be,” Nick snorted. “If you ain’t cheating, you ain’t trying. Besides, I’m tired of watching those two moon around after each other. Enough to make me crazy. The last thing we need around here is more crazy.”

She eyed him for a moment more, then nodded and rose soundlessly to leave. Nick waited until the door closed behind her before turning to his computer and opening a file on the SHIELD Intranet that he wasn’t supposed to know about. He smiled, and elsewhere in the base countless junior agents felt a chill run down their spines.

The “December” line now read “Natasha Romanoff.”

 


	2. Just Another Mission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phil and Clint prepare for their undercover mission. Because they're professionals. Really.

At 0845, Phil straightened everything on his desk for the fourth time, then forced himself to sit back in his chair, place his hands flat on his thighs, and take a deep breath.

_It's a mission, he told himself sternly. You are going to do what is necessary for the mission. People are counting on you to keep them safe._ Barton _is counting on you to keep him safe._

At 0859 Barton's distinctive knock sounded on the door. Phil took another steadying breath, checked to make sure his face and body language said "just another mission," and called "Come in."

Barton slunk into the room much like he had back in the beginning when he wasn't quite sure of his welcome, and Phil's heart ached a little. Trying to get Barton to talk about feelings, however, was just slightly more difficult than getting Agent Romanoff to surrender all of her weapons, so Phil focused even harder on radiating "business as usual," nodding toward the archer's favorite spot on the couch next to his desk. Phil grabbed his own copy of the file with the details of their cover identities in it off the top of his desk and started to swivel his his chair around to face Barton, then thought better of it and decided to join him on the couch. If they were going to be convincing as a married couple, they needed to get comfortable being in each others' space.

"Have you had a chance to go over the details of our covers?" Phil asked once he had settled into the opposite corner of the couch.

Barton--Clint--nodded, his body relaxing into its usual slouch as they moved into more familiar mission-planning territory. "Yeah. Mine's former military, currently writing improbable military thrillers under a pen name. We actually pay someone to write these books so agents can take credit?"

"We do," Phil confirmed. "She's no Tom Clancy, but they're not bad. I'll have the research department send you up a couple for our 'honeymoon' so you can familiarize yourself, just in case you get asked things like 'which one's your favorite?'. Any specific details you don't know, you can pass off by saying that it's been awhile and you've been writing something else, but you should be able to reference a few parts."

"Okay," Clint said. "And you're 'working' from home, too, right?"

Phil nodded. "History professor on a research sabbatical. Fury wanted to be sure we'd have an excuse to be hanging around the neighborhood at all hours of the day."

Clint flipped through the rest of his file. "They didn't give us very much about our relationship, though. Just that we met when I called you to research something for a book?"

"That's actually pretty common for long-term missions like this," Phil said. "Research likes to set up the framework and let us build the cover ourselves, preferably based on real life as much as possible. It's easier to remember when you're telling the truth as much as possible."

Clint stiffened beside him. "Based on real life?"

Phil wracked his brain for a good example. "Like, maybe you were in Budapest to research for a book and you got caught up in that mess and I was badgering the consulate to try to get you home."

"Ohh," Clint said, relaxing back into his corner. "Or we say we've been together for as long as we've actually been working together?"

"Exactly," Phil said, trying not to let himself dwell on Clint's reaction. "But we should probably get those stories straight; all the little things that people ask newlyweds."

Clint shrugged. "I wouldn't know what those are."

"I've never been married," Phil admitted, "but it's usually things like how you met, when you moved in together, that kind of thing. We should probably flesh out the first meeting story a little more."

Clint frowned, his forehead wrinkling adorably. Phil had to fight the reflex to look away, reminding himself that he was allowed to look, that soon he'd be _expected_ to look. "What kind of history are you supposed to be a professor of, anyway?"

"Uh..." Phil tore himself away from the contemplation of Clint Barton's adorable forehead to flip through his own file. "Looks like primarily World War II era history, specializing in Captain America and the Howling Commandos and the rise of Hydra."

"Teach what you know, huh, boss?" Clint teased gently. "Okay, so I'm researching WWII history for a book and I contact you..."

"...and it turns out we're both local, so after a few phone and email exchanges we start meeting up for coffee to talk in person," Phil supplied. "And after we've done that three or four times I finally work up the courage to ask you out for dinner."

"And I don't realize it's a date at first," Clint said, "because I don't think someone as smart and educated as you would be interested in a jarhead who barely graduated high school."

Phil smiled. "And I can't believe you said yes, because I don’t think someone who looks like you would be interested in a balding, middle-aged academic. But it goes really well, and at the end of the date I work up my courage and go in for the good-night kiss--"

"--and it's incredible," Clint interrupted. "And after a couple more dates I finally admit that I didn't know it was a date that first time and we laugh about it."

They sat in silence for a minute, smiling at each other, and Phil's heart flipped gently in his chest. He could picture it, this life that the alternate versions of them could have had, and he had to look down at the file to hide exactly how jealous he was of his fictional self.

"So how did we move in together?" Clint asked, his voice light, and Phil forcibly returned himself to the matter at hand. Work. This was work. They had a job to do, and they were going to do it, because they were professionals. Goddamnit.

* * *

"Is that it, boss?" Clint asked, arching his back and stretching out the kinks from over an hour on Coulson’s couch. When he dropped his arms back down, he noticed that the tips of Coulson’s ears were a little pink.

"Just about," he said, shuffling the papers back into the file. "But you should probably get out of the habit of calling me 'boss.’ It's not a big thing, but it might raise a few eyebrows."

"That's going to be hard," Clint admitted. "Most of the time, I don't even notice it anymore. Maybe I can turn it into ‘babe’ if I catch myself in time?"

Coulson looked unconvinced. “Probably a good fallback plan. But you should get used to calling me Phil...Clint.”

Only long years where his survival had depended on being impossible to read let Clint hide his shivery reaction to hearing his first name in Coulson’s--Phil’s voice. He knew all the ways Agent Coulson could say “Barton,” from the fond exasperation when he had done something stupid but not dangerous, to the worried when he woke up in medical from doing something stupid and dangerous, to the flat-out pissed when he had completely fucked things up. But this warm, caring tone, the way he smiled when his mouth shaped Clint’s name...this was something else entirely. He’d thought he knew all the parts of Agent Coulson, but he suddenly realized that he didn’t know a lot about Phil.

“Okay...Phil,” he said slowly, and when Coulson--Phil, dammit--smiled that tiny quirk of a smile, the one that meant “Good job, Barton, I’m proud of you,” it warmed Clint down to his toes.

“It’s going to be fine,” Coul--Phil said, half to himself, and Clint automatically reached out to knock on Coulson’s desk.

“Shit, b-babe, don’t jinx us like that! We haven’t even started!”

Phil rolled his eyes fondly. “All right. Can you think of anything else we need to go over?”

Clint shook his head reluctantly. “No, not really. Not much else we can plan until we get the lay of the land. When do we leave for our ‘honeymoon’ again?”

“Sunday,” Phil said. “We’ll have a week at the resort and then we meet the movers at ‘our’ new house.”

“I can’t believe SHIELD is springing for a beach resort for a fake honeymoon,” Clint said, getting to his feet. “You’d think they’d just send us straight over to the safe house.”

Phil shrugged, standing up as well. “It’s a transition period. It’s handy for agents who aren’t used to pretending to be a relationship. The resort staff aren’t going to see us again, so it doesn’t matter if we slip up around them, and any awkwardness can be put down to us being newlyweds.”

“Awkwardness?” Clint said, distracted by the fact that Phil was still standing in his space, not moving back to sit behind his big desk. He was so distracted, in fact, that he nearly jumped out of his skin when Phil reached out and rested a hand at his waist.

“Like that,” Phil said, his smile understanding. “We’re going to be playing a married couple, Clint. There’s going to be touching.”

“I know that,” Clint grumbled, trying not to focus on the fact that Phil’s little finger had brushed the hem of his t-shirt up just the tiniest bit and was actually touching his skin. He had to resist the urge to lean in to the touch, to slide Phil’s hand completely under his shirt and beg for more, to get that warm, electric feeling on every inch of his skin. “Just wasn’t expecting it.”

“Even so, we should probably meet up at least once a day until we leave,” Phil said, both of his ears turning pink. “To acclimate ourselves to the...touching.”

“Okay,” Clint managed despite a mouth gone suddenly dry at all the possibilities that the word “touching” held. They were going to be pretend-married. There would be hand squeezing and hugs and--his brain short-circuited before he could even think the word “kissing.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow then...Phil.”

“Tomorrow,” Coulson confirmed.

Clint managed to hold it together until he was safely up in the vents, his face its usual impassive mask, but once the vent cover closed behind him, he just let himself collapse, the metal of the ducts pleasantly cool against his burning face. Touching. They were going to meet once a day, to--to practice touching each other.

_ I am so fucked. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I totally stole...I mean borrowed...the bit about SHIELD letting them incorporate real life into their covers from [Pine Lake Oasis](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1106088) by [infiniteeight](http://archiveofourown.org/users/infiniteeight/pseuds/infiniteeight) which is a fantastic fic by a fantastic writer and one of my go-to Clint/Coulson rereads.


	3. The Next Step

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phil and Clint jet off to a beautiful tropical getaway.

"Coming!" Clint shouted when he heard the knock coming from downstairs. He shoved the last few t-shirts into his duffel bag, dragged the zipper closed, and threw it over his shoulder, clattering down the stairs and across the living room.

"Sorry--" he said as he threw open the door, and his brain promptly screeched to a halt, unable to fully process what he was seeing. Coulson--no, Phil, his stunned brain corrected him--Phil was wearing jeans. Gray jeans and a soft, worn-looking blue t-shirt with a v-neck that let Clint see just the tiniest hint of chest hair. His brain tried to shut down again at that, but his eyes soldiered on, cataloging the black hoodie and bomber jacket topping it that had his hand reaching out to stroke without his conscious permission. The brown leather was just as buttery soft as it looked, and the muscles of the arm under it were just as firm as the last time Clint had gotten to touch, two days ago in Phil's office.

"If you're quite done feeling up my jacket, we do have a plane to catch," Phil said dryly, but his eyes were crinkled at the corners.

"Just gotta grab my jacket, and I'm good to go," Clint said, suiting actions to words by snagging his worn purple hoodie off the hook by door. It took a few tries, because he had trouble tearing his eyes away from Casual Phil. "Lead on, b-babe."

"One thing, first," Phil said, reaching into his pocket. Clint's heart and stomach did some uncomfortable tandem acrobatics when Phil opened his hand to reveal two plain silver bands.

"Wow, this is so sudden," Clint joked, because he couldn't be serious, not about this. Not about Phil giving him a ring, not about having everything he'd ever wanted offered to him in Phil Coulson's calloused, capable hands.

"Not that sudden," Phil said, giving him his best long-suffering "are you done yet, Barton?" smile. "It's been eleven years. Probably time for us to take the next step."

Clint rolled his eyes, but managed to stop himself from saying anything else stupid as Phil reached for his left hand and slid one of the bands onto his ring finger, holding his gaze the whole time. Clint swallowed, hard, suddenly not interested in joking at all. Phil looked down and started to put the other ring on himself, but Clint shook himself out of his daze and snagged it. "My turn," he said, and Phil acquiesed, letting Clint take the ring and slip it onto his finger.

They stood in silence for a minute. Phil's hand was warm in Clint's, and Clint couldn't shake the feeling that he should say something, do something, but all he could do was stand there, lost in Phil's eyes and wondering why something so fake felt like the most real thing he'd ever done.

Phil's watch beeped, breaking the moment, and he looked down at it. "And now we really do have to go," he said regretfully.

"Yeah," Clint said, dropping Phil's hand and stepping out of the door before turning to lock up.

Phil stepped back, waiting until Clint had done up all the locks and slung the duffel bag back over his shoulder before reaching for his hand and lacing their fingers together. The cool metal of the ring on Phil's hand warmed quickly against Clint's skin and he felt a surge of possessiveness. For the next few days, or weeks, or months, until the end of the mission, everyone who looked at Phil would be able to see that he was taken, that he was Clint's.

He whistled his way down the stairs, and he was smiling when he slid into the backseat of the cab waiting outside his building.

* * *

Nearly seven hours later, the ferry slid into the dock at Sunset Key. "Hungry?" Phil asked, taking Clint's hand again, because he could. They were supposed to be newlyweds, after all, he reasoned. It would seem strange if they weren't touching. It had nothing to do with the fact that he was rapidly becoming addicted to the feeling of Clint's skin against his, or the way that Clint squeezed his hand and leaned into his side.

"I could eat," Clint said, still a little sleepy-eyed from his nap on the plane (and if the touch of Clint's hand was addictive, his head on Phil's shoulder as he snored lightly was downright lethal. Clint Barton didn't sleep in public--or at all--without someone he trusted there to watch his back. Knowing that he considered Phil to be one of those people? It made Phil feel about ten feet tall, and also terrified beyond measure).

"Mr. Coleman and Mr. Borden?" asked the smoothly attractive blonde waiting on the dock. "My name is Cassidy, and I'm your island representative. If you'll step this way, I'll get you settled into your cottage and answer any questions you might have."

"Excellent," Phil answered for both of them. "It's been a long trip."

Clint was looking a little worn around the edges, despite his nap on the plane, so Phil kept up light, inane conversation as they followed Cassidy down the path to their cottage. She showed them inside and around the light, airy space, pointing out the bedroom with its massive bed, the luxurious bathroom, and the small but practical kitchenette.

"If you'd rather eat here instead of going out, we do offer in-cottage dining from the Latitudes restaurant," Cassidy finished up as they returned to the main living area. "The menu is by the phone and you can call in your order anytime during operating hours. There's also information about the various activities available here on Sunset Key and in Key West; and I can book any of those excursions for you. If there's anything else you need to make your stay pleasant, please don't hesitate to let meknow."

"Thank you very much," Phil said, reluctantly letting go of Clint's hand long enough to slip a generous tip into Cassidy's hand.

"Thank you," she said, pulling the door open and turning to go. "I'll leave you alone now. Enjoy your stay on Sunset Key!"

"Wow..." Clint said, dropping onto the dining area bench. "I didn't realize it was possible to be that terminally perky and not die from it."

"Be nice," Phil admonished, picking up the menu, but he couldn't stop the fond smile. "Or I'll make you get up again to get food instead of having them bring it to you."

Clint gave him an exaggerated pout and blinked wide, soulful eyes up at him. Phil was laughing over the phone as the call connected and he placed their order.

* * *

They had an excellent dinner of steak and lobster, sitting side by side on the banquette bench in the dining area, shoulders and knees and elbows occasionally brushing together. After eleven years of missions and stakeouts, Phil had the equivalent of a post-graduate degree in controlling his reactions to Clint. But the quiet intimacy of this situation was cutting through all his defenses, leaving him longing with an almost physical ache for what he would never have. He was incredibly grateful for the way that Clint's eyes were drooping and he was yawning nearly constantly, because it meant that he wasn't turning those hawk-sharp eyes on Phil.

"I know for a fact that you've stayed awake for 72 hours straight on a mission more than once," Phil said, tsking in mock disapproval.

Clint shrugged. "Sure, if I have to. But we're on vacation; nobody's going to try to take us out here. And I hate flying commercial, anyway. Takes forever and being crammed into a plane with all those other people makes me feel like I can't breathe."

"Go on to bed, then," Phil said, standing up to let Clint slide out from behind the table. "I'll take care of the dishes and be there in a minute."

"'kay," Clint said, yawning again as he stood up and stretched. "Probably be asleep by the time you get in there. Night, Phil."

"Good night," Phil answered, smiling fondly despite the familiar tugging ache in his chest as he watched Clint pad across the tile floor toward the bedroom, all catlike grace despite his exhaustion.

Phil busied himself with loading the dishes back onto the little cart from the restaurant and pushing it outside the cottage door to be picked up. He wiped down the table, checked the fridge and the kitchen cabinets to see what kind of food and drinks had been stocked, and started to read a brochure on a kayaking excursion before he admitted to himself that he was stalling. He took a deep breath, turned off the lights, and went to the bedroom.

The main light was off, but Clint had left the lamp on the far side of the bed turned on, and moonlight reflecting off the ocean streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows with their open blinds. Phil could clearly see Clint sprawled across the near side of the king-sized bed, flat on his stomach with both arms curled up under the pillow, the fluffy white comforter only just covering his ass. The silvery moonlight and the golden glow of the lamp competed to lovingly outline each dip and curve of the muscles in Clint's arms and back, and Phil could only stand there, stopped dead in his tracks.

He had long ago grown accustomed to the tiny curl of lust in his stomach whenever he saw Clint (or knew he would be seeing Clint, or thought about seeing Clint) but this feeling was another beast altogether. This was far from the first time he'd been confronted with Clint's naked skin; they'd shared motel rooms, safe houses, locker rooms, and, on three very memorable occasions, decontamination showers over the course of their time working together. But this, with Clint tucked into one half of a bed and the other side turned down invitingly, waiting for Phil...this was intimate in a way that the two of them had never been before, that Phil had been careful to not  _let_ them be before. He could feel all of his carefully erected walls crumbling, all of the feelings that he'd pushed down and away rising up like a tidal wave about to obliterate every ounce of his self-control. It was terrifying.

"Quit standing there and come to bed," Clint mumbled, his face still buried in the pillow. "Not gonna bite you."

Phil smiled, broken out of his stasis, even over the sudden surge of heat at the mental image of Clint's teeth nipping at his skin. "I'm going to brush my teeth first."

Clint made a grumbling sound that could be taken for assent. Phil grabbed his bag from where it sat by the door and turned off the lamp on his way to the bathroom--he might be riding a desk most of the time these days, but the day he couldn't find his way through a moonlit room was the day he tendered his resignation.

Phil used the bathroom, washed his hands and face, brushed his teeth, and changed into pajama pants and a t-shirt. He made a face at himself in the mirror before switching off the bathroom light and opening the door. He made just the right amount of noise on his way to the bed (nothing was guaranteed to wake SHIELD agents up faster than trying to sneak around silently, and Barton in particular had never responded well to being surprised) and slipped between the crisp white sheets with a sigh.

"See?" Clint slurred, eyes still closed. "Plenty o' room for botha us."

"Go to sleep, Clint," Phil said.

"Mmmmm," was Clint's only reply, and despite everything, Phil sank into sleep with a smile on his lips.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those interested, Clint and Phil are staying at [Sunset Key Cottages](http://www.sunsetkeycottages.com/). Because research is a valid way to pretend you're writing when you can't actually words. But I wish I had a shady government agency that would send me to a resort for a fake honeymoon. That place looks fantastic!


	4. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint and Phil enjoy their vacation.

Clint floated up to consciousness slowly, in the way that only ever happened on those rare occasions where he felt safe and secure enough to let himself sink into a deep, restful sleep. He was warm and clean; his stomach wasn't full but also wasn't empty enough to complain. He was relaxed into a soft, welcoming bed, his face tucked into a pleasantly fluffy pillow, his muscles so relaxed against the smooth sheets that he felt boneless. He frowned a little when his mental inventory found an anomaly; the skin on his left leg wasn't resting against sheets, but rubbing lightly against softer fabric, already warmed by--shit, he was in bed with Phil, that was Phil's leg, warm against his, and the fabric of his sleep pants had ridden up a little, crisp hair rubbing against Clint's bare leg as it moved...

Clint fought not to tense, only barely managing it thanks to long training in controlling his body and his physical reactions. He slowed the movement of his leg and pulled it away, hoping it could be taken for a natural shift in his sleep, but not really surprised when Phil called him on it.

"Awake?" Phil sounded amused, at least, and not offended or upset.

"Yeah," Clint said, his voice raspy from sleep, and reminded himself that they were supposed to be a married couple, that it was perfectly okay if his leg touched Phil's leg while he was asleep. He started to roll over onto his back, but realized quickly that some parts of him were far too excited for polite company (and how pathetic was he, that just waking up with one leg tangled with Phil's was enough to have him mentally reciting the specs for his favorite sniper rifle in an effort to calm things down?). He pushed up on his elbows instead, suppressing a groan, and turned his head toward Phil.

Phil was propped up against the headboard with his tablet, his glasses magnifying the blue of his eyes in a way that always made Clint's heart flip a little, smiling a soft little smile that Clint had never seen before.

"You're really taking this vacation concept seriously," Phil said lightly, glancing over at the clock. "I thought you were going to sleep 'til noon."

"It's not noon yet?" Clint asked, feeling playful. "That's it, I'm going back to sleep." He dropped back down onto the bed and curled his arms under the pillow, burying his face in it.

"Hey, none of that," Phil mock-scolded, poking him in the leg with his bare foot. "You can sleep any time. We've got plans for the day; our kayak tour leaves in two hours."

Clint sighed, rolling onto his side facing Phil. "C'mon, Phil, we're supposed to be on our honeymoon. If we were really newlyweds, I sure as hell wouldn't be letting you out of here to go kayaking."

"If we try to stay in the cottage all day, you'll be climbing the walls by noon," Phil retorted, his ears flushing. "I'm going to shower first, but then you'd better get your ass out of bed and ready to go."

"Yes, sir!" Clint rapped out, sketching a mocking salute, and Phil shook his head as he climbed out of bed and went into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. Clint allowed himself five minutes of contemplating the combination of "Phil" and "shower" before resolutely pushing his thoughts into safer channels. He had things pretty well under control by the time Phil came out of the bathroom, his skin flushed and a little damp from the shower, wearing a t-shirt and swim trunks and sending all of Clint's hard work straight to hell.

"All yours," Phil said, and Clint scooted across the bed, keeping the covers over him until the last second, and made his escape into the bathroom.

* * *

“You’re going to burn,” Phil admonished as Clint stripped his t-shirt off. He allowed his gaze to linger a little on all the rippling golden muscle on display, the light reflecting off the waves ensuring that he could see every shift and flex.  _Part of the cover,_ he told himself. _You’ve got to act like you’re completely besotted with your new husband._ He firmly ignored the part of him  that was making sarcastic air quotes around the word “act.”

“Nah,” Clint replied, tucking the shirt between his back and the backrest of the kayak. “I don’t burn very easy. Just lucky, I guess. You should take yours off, too, babe. Feels great.”

“Some of us do burn easily,” Phil replied, ignoring the rush of warmth from the endearment and Clint’s affectionate tone ( _just the cover,_ he reminded himself). “My shirt is staying right where it is.”

“Awww--” Clint began.

“If you look to your left,” Andrea, their tour guide, interrupted, politely but firmly (she’d discovered early on that she’d have to talk over Clint if she wanted to say anything), “you’ll see an American crocodile. They live throughout the Keys, sometimes even ending up in the more populated areas.”

As the tour went on, Phil found himself relaxing more and more, just reveling in the moment. There were no bad guys to keep an eye out for, no missions depending on his leadership and organization to succeed, no piles of paperwork awaiting his attention. Just the sun shining on the clear, tropical water, warming him in places that he hadn’t known were cold, and the almost hypnotic flex and release of Clint’s muscles as he paddled his kayak.

When they finally pulled into a sandy, deserted beach, Andrea set up an umbrella for them, made sure they had water and towels, and tactfully retreated. “I’ll be back in about an hour to pick you up,” she said. “Enjoy the beach.”

Phil stretched out on one of the towels with a sigh, the pleasant warmth of the sand under it more than making up for the hardness of the surface. “This is nice,” he said quietly, closing his eyes and just basking.

“Yeah,” Clint agreed softly. “Do you, uh, you should probably put some more sunscreen on, huh?”

“Probably,” Phil agreed drowsily. “But I don’t want to move right now.”

“C’mon, babe,” Clint coaxed. “You don’t want to ruin our whole vacation with a sunburn.”

“Andrea’s gone, Clint,” Phil said dryly. “You don’t have to lay it on quite so thick.”

“Don’t change the subject. I’ll put the damn sunscreen on you myself if I have to,” Clint threatened.

Phil spread his arms to the side before he could think better of it. “Knock yourself out.”

The next thing Phil knew, Clint’s fingers were urging his t-shirt up, brushing lightly over the skin of his belly as they curled around the hem. Phil kept his eyes closed and allowed Clint to manhandle him out of the shirt. _I should stop this_ , he thought. _The further we go, the harder it’s going to be to get back to normal._

And then Clint’s calloused hands were on his arms, slick with sunscreen and so warm, massaging in little circles. Phil stopped pretending, at least to himself, that he didn’t want to be exactly where he was, on the warm sand of a tropical beach with Clint Barton’s hands on him.

Clint worked his way down Phil’s arms, meticulously rubbing the sunscreen into every inch of skin. When he got to Phil’s hands, he used both of his own to pick up the left one, smoothing the sunscreen into the spaces between Phil’s fingers and digging his thumbs into the palm before setting it down gently on the towel and turning his attention to the right hand. It took every bit of Phil’s Agent Coulson iron self-control to keep himself from moaning as Clint trailed his fingers back up Phil’s arms, then paused to squeeze more sunscreen into his hands before spreading it across Phil’s collarbone and up onto his neck.

Phil melted into the towel as Clint’s hands made their slow, steady way down his chest, but at the same time he found himself having to mentally recite the more obscure SHIELD regulations to keep his...excitement from becoming apparent. “I don’t think the last professional massage I had was this good,” he mumbled as Clint urged him to turn over and started on the back of his neck. He did actually moan when Clint’s clever fingers found a knot in his shoulders that had been bothering him for the better part of three months, but he managed to muffle most of it with the towel.

“I do give a mean backrub,” Clint agreed cheerfully, but his voice was a little rough, probably from having been on the water all day. “These hands are all yours now, babe. Just say the word.” His hands lingered on Phil even after the knots and soreness had been worked out, brushing almost tenderly across the little scars and bruises that were inevitable in their line of work, sending little shivery sensations across Phil’s skin.

Phil was incredibly grateful that his face was in the towel, because he didn’t think that all the self-control in the world could’ve kept his longing off his face at that point. But by the time he was done refining the list of all the names he would be calling Nick Fury once this mission ended, he was able to say calmly, “You know, I might take you up on that.”

“Good,” Clint said, slowly pulling his hands away, the muscles of his legs tense where they pressed into Phil’s side. “Somebody’s gotta take care of you, if you won’t take care of yourself.”

* * *

“I still can’t believe you got me on a jet ski,” Phil said, smiling at Clint across the white-draped table.

Clint laughed, reaching around the candle in the center of the table to take Phil’s hand in a move that had become second nature to both of them over the past week. “The place was called Fury Water Adventures, babe. We had to at least get a picture of us by the sign, or no one at work would ever believe us.”

“Still,” Phil mock-grumbled, but he couldn’t stop smiling. “I could’ve broken my neck. I’m too old for that shit.”

“Too old?” Clint arched an eyebrow at him. “You kicked my ass, Phil. I haven’t seen driving like that since Budapest.”

Phil felt himself flushing and thanked whatever powers looked out for balding, middle-aged spies that the light was so dim. Before he could come up with an appropriate deflection, though, the waiter arrived with their entrees, sliding the yellow snapper and sea bass neatly onto the table.

They ate in companionable silence, as had become their habit. Clint’s leg rested against Phil’s under the table, a solid, grounding presence that Phil had grown accustomed to far, far too easily. Phil let Clint talk him into splitting a slice of Key Lime pie for dessert just for the pleasure of watching Clint close his eyes and enjoy the flavor.

They both lingered over the table even after they were done eating, talking about everything and nothing in the way that they’d always been able to. Phil was reluctant to break the spell, to admit that it was their last night together in this place where all he had to do was enjoy Clint’s company. When they finally pushed back from the table and Clint kissed him lightly before leading him down the steps from the patio to the moonlit beach, he didn’t resist.

It was only when they were finally back at their cottage that Phil realized they’d held hands for the entire walk, even when there was no one to see.

* * *

“Well, that went fast,” Clint said, leaning on the rail as the ferry pulled away from the dock. It came out a little more wistful than he had planned, but he thought he could probably blame it on leaving the tropical warmth for the colder northern temperatures.

“It really did,” Phil agreed, squeezing a little where his arm was wrapped around Clint’s waist. Clint leaned into the squeeze, reminding himself that the mission wasn’t over yet. He still had an indeterminate amount of time to be Phil’s husband, to wake up beside him, to hold his hand or bump their shoulders together or even steal a quick kiss if he could justify it.

“This’ll be fun, though,” Clint said, trying to sound like he actually meant it. “I have a lot of holiday recipes I’ve never had time to try. Why is it that we always seem to catch a mission around the holidays?”

“SHIELD tries not to assign married or partnered agents to long missions during the holiday season unless there’s no other choice,” Phil said absently. “So the rest of us end up picking up the slack. You cook?”

Clint shrugged, feeling himself blush. “I like it. I took some classes when I got my own place, so I didn’t have to do takeout all the time. I’m no fancy chef, but I’ve never poisoned anybody. Accidentally, I mean. I made the apple cake at the potluck last year.”

Phil shook his head as the ferry eased into the dock. “That cake was amazing. It’s a good thing SHIELD included home gym equipment in our house, or I imagine I’d gain a good 20 pounds by the end of this mission.”

“It’s not my fault you can’t resist baked goods,” Clint teased, slipping out of Phil’s grasp and taking his hand to pull him toward the gangplank. “C’mon, babe, let’s go home.”

“Home,” Phil repeated, and the soft smile on his face made Clint feel like he’d never be cold again, no matter how bad the winter got. “Yeah, let’s go home.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Fury Water Adventures](https://www.furycat.com/) is a _real business_ you guys!!! I couldn't resist! I headcanon that Fury actually owns it, through several shell corporations, as an investment for his retirement.


	5. Enough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint and Phil settle into "their" new home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, guys, the mutual pining gets really intense here. I'm informed that you might to have tissues and/or a fan handy.

Clint closed the door behind the last mover and sagged against the wall, then let himself slide down it until he was sitting on the floor. It was a nice floor--pale, polished hardwood, pleasantly warm to the touch from the radiant heating system underneath. He was giving serious thought to curling up right there and going to sleep (just by virtue of being dry and warm it was head and shoulders above a lot of places he’d slept) when Phil came down the stairs and found him.

“One little tropical vacation and you’ve gone soft,” Phil said. His face was stern, but Clint was really going to miss the crinkles around his eyes and his indulgent tone once the mission ended.

“Moving is hard,” Clint whined. “We should start making field agents work as movers. Or have ‘em move their own stuff every three months. Good training”

Phil shook his head and reached down to pull Clint to his feet. “And you weren’t even the one carrying the boxes. Come on, I’ve put our bags in the bedroom and hooked up the TV in the living room. We don’t have to worry about unpacking anything else tonight; let’s order some pizza and watch Dog Cops.”

“Best husband ever.” Clint leaned in and kissed Phil lightly, forgetting until he started to pull away that the movers were gone and it was just the two of them. He braced himself for Phil’s questioning look, already preparing an excuse, but Phil just used the hand he still held to lead him into the living room.

An hour later, Clint licked the last traces of sauce and grease off his fingers and sat back on the couch with a sigh. “What’s on the agenda for tomorrow, babe?”

Phil hit pause on the remote and turned a little more toward Clint, resting his arm along the back of the couch. “Well, unpacking, obviously, to start with.”

Clint groaned. “Why did they send so much stuff? Who even has that much stuff?”

Phil shrugged. “Normal people? The props department sometimes gets a little overly enthusiastic. But two adult men who each had their own place before getting together would probably have a lot of stuff.”

“I guess,” Clint said dubiously. “They sent a coffeemaker, right?”

“Already set up in the kitchen,” Phil reassured him. “So we’ll do coffee and start unpacking. The surveillance net is already in place, and we can both access it on our phones or tablets, plus our laptops. SHIELD will be monitoring it, but we’re expected to as well, since we’re the ones on the ground who’re most likely to be able to intervene if something goes down.”

“Unless something happens while we’re at the grocery store,” Clint grumbled, pretending that he wasn’t facing the prospect of an indeterminate amount of time alone in a house with Phil. He couldn’t quite decide if that sounded like heaven or hell. “Or anywhere other than at home.”

Phil smiled back at him. “There will be a team on call for backup; they won’t be left uncovered if we have to leave to keep up our cover. We should probably wait and see if Director Fury can come through with that introduction, though. It’ll be less suspicious if the senator’s daughter comes to visit us rather than us going to her.”

Clint nodded, reaching along the back of the couch to lace his fingers through Phil’s. “Makes sense. I’m going to want to go get groceries at some point tomorrow; I saw a nice little supermarket on the way in.”

“Whatever you say, dear,” Phil said mildly, but his eyes were twinkling, the blue of the t-shirt he was wearing reflected in his eyes. His cheeks looked flushed, too, but Clint was pretty sure that was from the beer he’d had with his pizza.

Clint snorted. “If you’re already pulling that shit, this marriage is in trouble,” he teased.

“Maybe I’m just so besotted with my incredibly handsome husband that I’m perfectly willing to let him have his way,” Phil shot back, still smiling that soft little smile.

“Got you wrapped around my finger, huh?” Clint asked, smiling through the pang of longing he felt. This all felt so real; if only it could be.

“Absolutely,” Phil answered. “In all seriousness, though, now that we’re here, we should probably do our best to stay in character even when we’re alone. Less chance to make a mistake that way.”

Clint did his best not to look surprised. “You’re right,” he said. “Are you going to be okay with that?”

“Me? I’ll be fine,” Phil said, just a shade too quickly, and Clint’s heart sank. Of course Phil would do whatever was needed for the mission, even if he wasn’t comfortable with it personally. “What about you?”

Clint smiled, doing his best to keep the sadness he felt from showing. “Don’t worry about me, babe. I’m always forgetting that I’m not supposed to be in character when we’re alone; it’ll be easier this way.” Until it’s over, he added inside his head.

Phil nodded, apparently seeing nothing amiss, then reached for the remote and started the show again.

Clint tried to pay attention, but he just couldn’t get comfortable. When he shifted into his sixth position in as many minutes, Phil stopped the show again. “Come here,” he commanded, turning toward Clint again and stretching one leg along the length of the couch.

Clint scooted hesitantly halfway across the couch, and Phil impatiently pulled him the rest of the way until he was nestled between Phil’s legs, leaning back against Phil’s chest. His head ended up on Phil’s shoulder and Phil’s strong arm curled around his waist. A normal-sized couch wouldn’t have accommodated them, Clint thought a little wildly, trying to focus on anything other than where he found himself, but someone at SHIELD had made sure they had a couch big enough for comfortable cuddling, especially when Phil put the footrests up to support their legs.

“Better?” Phil asked softly, his warm breath whispering across Clint’s ear, and Clint gave up. He was wrapped in Phil Coulson’s arms, and it might not be the way he’d wanted to get there, but it was better than he could have ever imagined. If this was all he was going to get, he might as well enjoy it while it lasted.

“Yeah,” he said, equally softly.

“Good,” Phil said, starting the show one more time.

Clint closed his eyes and cataloged every sensation--the brush of Phil’s hair against his cheek, the rise and fall of Phil’s chest behind his back, the absent movements of Phil’s fingers against his stomach, sending sparks dancing across his skin even through the fabric of his t-shirt. He made sure every detail was sharp and clear in his memory, because someday this mission would end. Someday, Phil would go back to his apartment and Clint would go back to his and they would pretend that none of this had ever happened. And all Clint would have left would be the memories of Phil, the warmth of his touch, the strength of his arms, the way he smiled first thing in the morning. It would be enough.

It would have to be.

* * *

The television had long since been turned off and Clint had been snoring softly in his arms for over an hour now, but Phil couldn’t bring himself to move. He knew, intellectually, that he had crossed a line, that he should’ve turned down this assignment as soon as Nick brought it up. But it was too late, now, and the greedy, selfish part of him was glad. Yes, it would be hell when the mission was over, when they went back to being Barton and Coulson, two agents who worked together seamlessly and were friends out of the field. When he would have to pretend he didn’t know what Clint’s lips felt like against his own, or the sleepy look in his eyes when he first woke up and didn’t have to snap into mission-ready alertness.

But for these days, or weeks, or however long this mission would last, Phil got to have Clint, and he was long past pretending to himself that he didn’t want this. After the mission was over, he would have his work, the thing he did best, and he would have the memories he was jealously cataloging away. It would be enough, more than he’d ever expected to have.

In the meantime, though, no matter how much he wished it otherwise, Phil’s back reminded him that he was getting too old for prolonged couch cuddling. He sighed, taking one more moment to savor the warm, trusting weight of Clint on top of him before turning his head and letting his lips brush across Clint’s temple.

“Clint?” he murmured. “We should probably get to bed if we want to be able to move in the morning.”

“Mmmm…” Clint mumbled. “Comfy.”

Phil smiled. “You might be, but some of us aren’t as young as we once were. Come on, let’s go.”

Clint yawned and stretched before making his way to his feet, offering Phil a completely unnecessary hand up. Phil took it anyway, just so he could let himself linger in Clint’s personal space once he was standing. Clint didn’t seem to mind ( _he’s in character_ , Phil reminded himself, _like you told him to be_ ), keeping their hands linked and leading Phil toward the stairs instead of letting go

They moved through their bedtime routine quickly, orbiting around each other with an ease borne from eleven years of shared missions, changing clothes (or removing them, in Clint’s case). Phil finished brushing his teeth first, vaguely appreciating the way that the door separating the shower and toilet from the sinks allowed them greater privacy, and slipped between the flannel sheets he’d indulged himself with, letting his eyes sink closed and his mind drift. The shift of the mattress as Clint climbed into the bed was familiar now, but the way Clint slid across the sheets and wrapped himself around Phil wasn’t.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, retreating to the other side of the bed when he felt Phil tense in surprise. “You said…”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Phil reassured him, extending his arm in invitation. “I just wasn’t expecting it.”

“You sure?” Clint asked. “I don’t--”

“It’s fine, Clint,” Phil said firmly. “Go to sleep.”

Clint kept the distance between them for a moment, but he finally slid back in, wrapping his arm across Phil’s stomach, hooking one leg over Phil’s, and pillowing his head on Phil's shoulder. He stayed tense until Phil wrapped his arm firmly around Clint’s shoulders, pulling him that last little bit closer. All the tension flowed out of Clint’s muscles on a long sigh, and within minutes he was snoring softly again.

Phil lay there for a few more minutes, fixing the moment in his memory, but all too soon the warmth and comfort had him following Clint down into sleep.

 


	6. White Picket Fence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint and Phil meet the neighbors and actually get started on their mission.

When the doorbell rang, Clint’s hands were coated in cookie dough. “Phil!” he called. “Can you get that?”

“Sure.” Phil’s voice floated down the stairs, followed closely by the man himself. Clint watched appreciatively from where he stood at the kitchen island, rolling dough into balls and setting them gently in the cinnamon-sugar mixture on the plate in front of him. He couldn’t quite decide what he was enjoying more, the easy domesticity they’d fallen into or the way that Phil’s ass looked in his jeans as he walked across the living room to open the front door.

“Hello,” Phil said, standing in the doorway.

“Hi,” a woman’s voice said. “I’m looking for Phil Coleman and Clint Borden?”

“I’m Phil,” he said, voice still blandly pleasant, but Clint could see the subtle tension in his back.

“Oh, good,” she said. “I’m Christina Miller; my wife and I live three houses down. My dad said I should look you up after you had a few days to settle in?”

Phil opened the door wider, relaxing back into his “regular guy” persona. “Of course. Won’t you come in?”

“Just for a minute,” Christina said, stepping far enough inside that Phil could shut the door behind her and that Clint could get a good look for the first time, without Phil in the way. She was average height, pleasantly curvy with curly dark hair and a pretty smile. At first glance she looked nothing like Senator Miller, who was a sturdy bulldog of a man with the jawline to match, but she had her father’s eyes, a dark, rich brown that met your gaze head-on.

“You must be Clint,” she said, still smiling, unwinding a dark red scarf from around her neck.

“Guilty,” he said, smiling back. “Sorry, I’d shake your hand, but…” he held up his own, covered with cookie dough, cinnamon and sugar in mute explanation.

“Oh, no, don’t apologize,” she said, crossing the living room to stand on the other side of the island. “It smells amazing. What are those?”

Clint set the last balls of dough on the cookie sheet and slid it carefully into the oven. “Snickerdoodles,” he answered.

“Really?” she asked, inspecting the gently rounded cookies on the cooling rack more closely. “I’ve never seen snickerdoodles shaped like that before.”

“Want to try one?” Clint asked. “Help yourself. I think I made too many for the two of us.”

Christina smiled. “I think I will,” she said, selecting a cookie after a few seconds of careful consideration.

“Clint’s an incredible baker,” Phil put in, crossing into the kitchen as well and sliding his arms around Clint’s waist, and Clint felt himself flush as he leaned back into the touch. “I swear I’ve gained ten pounds in the past week.”

“I believe it,” Christina said after swallowing the bite of cookie. “This is really, really good. All the snickerdoodles I’ve ever had were flat and kind of crunchy, but this is so fluffy and rich.”

“The first time I ever had snickerdoodles as a kid, they tasted like that,” Clint said, “and every time I found them after that I was disappointed, because they weren’t the same. I was really excited when I found this recipe to see if it was what I remembered.”

Christina licked the last of the cinnamon sugar off her fingers. “I can definitely see why. They completely distracted me from what I came over here to do, which was to invite you two to dinner on Friday. If you don’t have any other plans, that is. Nothing fancy, just a little get-together with some of the neighbors so you can get to know people.”

“We’d love to,” Phil answered for both of them. “As long as it’s not any trouble.”

“Not at all,” she said. “We tend to get together every month or so anyway. It’s a good neighborhood; people look out for each other. The meet-the-neighbors dinner is practically a tradition at this point. Someone did it for Amanda and I when we moved in, and now we’re doing it for you, and if you stay long enough, you’ll end up doing it for someone else.”

“Sounds nice,” Clint said, doing his best to keep the note of longing out of his voice. He was doing really well at being in character, but reminders of how temporary their time together was always pulled him out of it, if only for a second. “What time on Friday?”

“About seven, but we’re not super punctual people,” Christina said. “Amanda always says I should hand people a disclaimer card that says ‘I’ll probably be late because of who I am as a person.’ Food will be around eight, so as long as you get there before then, we’ll be good.”

Clint didn’t have to turn to know that Phil was trying not to wince behind him. “I get that; I thought a couple of times that Phil was going to break up with me before I could get my act together,” he teased gently.

Phil shook his head. “I wouldn’t have broken up with you for that. But I do appreciate that you make an effort to do better these days.”

“What can I say, babe?” Clint said, smiling wickedly. “You’re really good with positive reinforcement.”

Phil cleared his throat in the way that meant his ears were flushing. “Should we bring anything?”

Christina shook her head. “Just yourselves. You can bring something to the next one. I’ve got to go finish my shopping before I pick the kids up from school, but I’ll see you on Friday?”

“We’ll see you then,” Phil confirmed, dropping his hands slowly and moving away from Clint to walk her to the door.

“Wait,” Clint said, grabbing a plastic container from the cabinet. “Would you like some snickerdoodles to take home? I really did make too many for just us.”

“Please,” Phil said fervently. “I’ll just end up eating all of them and then I’ll have to spend the next 4 months in the gym so he doesn’t have to roll me around the house.”

“That would be great, thanks,” Christina said, her eyes lighting up. “Amanda and the kids will love them.”

“Anytime,” Clint said, snapping the lid on the container and handing it over. “I go a little nuts with baking around this time of year, so feel free to stop by and save Phil from my evil plot to make him fat.”

“You may regret that offer,” Christina warned. “Especially when the kids find out and tell their friends.”

“I think I can handle it,” Clint laughed, turning to the oven as the timer went off. “Nice to meet you, Christina. See you Friday!”

“See you then,” she said, nodding her thanks to Phil as he opened the door for her. He closed it gently once she was outside before coming back into the kitchen.

“Well, that went well,” Phil said, leaning against the counter.

“So Friday we go and act all couple-y?” Clint asked, rotating the cookie sheets, closing the oven door, and resetting the timer.

“Basically,” Phil said. “Think you can handle that?”

Clint grabbed Phil’s beltloops and pulled him in for a kiss. “Yeah, I think I can, babe.”

* * *

Phil linked his hand with Clint’s as they stood on the doorstep. “Ready for this?”

“Sure,” Clint said breezily, but his fingers were twitching

“Hey,” Phil said, turning to face him. “It’s going to be fine.”

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Clint blurted out. “I don’t know how to do this whole suburban white picket fence thing! What was Fury thinking? I’m going to fuck the whole thing up!”

Phil lifted one hand to Clint’s cheek and kissed him, not just the chaste press of lips that they’d perfected even without an audience, but a long, soft, tender kiss. His other hand dropped to Clint’s waist, pulling him closer until they were pressed together, not an inch of space between them. Clint’s lips parted slightly under his, and for a second Phil nearly forgot where they were, nearly fisted a hand in Clint’s hair and took what he was offering, like they were any newlywed couple who couldn’t keep their hands off each other.

But they weren’t just any newlywed couple. They were competent, highly trained secret agents, so Phil allowed himself one taste of Clint’s lower lip before breaking the kiss, moving the hand on Clint’s waist up to rub his back soothingly as Clint dropped his forehead onto Phil’s shoulder

“You’re going to do great,” he murmured in Clint’s ear, resisting the temptation to let his lips brush against it. “You’ve been fantastic this whole time. I know you don’t usually do undercover work, but you’ve been doing so well. I’m so proud of you.”

A shudder ran through Clint’s body. “But…” he started to protest.

“But you don’t have to do the ‘suburban white picket fence’ thing,” Phil interrupted firmly. “Clint Borden is a combat veteran, and, if our intel is right, at least a couple of the people here tonight are as well. Senator Miller is, too, so Christina knows all about it. Just be your usual charming self, maybe with a few less expletives than usual if there are children present. It’ll be fine.”

Clint lifted his head, a ghost of his normal cocky grin on his lips. “You think I’m charming?”

Phil rolled his eyes and rang the doorbell. “Why do you think I kept you around so long?”

“Well, I have it on good authority that my ass is fantastic,” Clint informed him mock-solemnly.

Phil surprised both of them by smacking him firmly on said ass, so that they were both laughing when Christina opened the door and ushered them inside.

* * *

The evening turned out to be much less torturous than Clint had expected. When Christina had said “food,” what she’d actually meant was “a table full of finger food.” They ended up arriving just in time to load up Christmas-themed paper plates and look around for a place to sit. There was one armchair empty in the living room, so after a couple of seconds of nonverbal communication, Phil took the chair and Clint settled himself on the floor at his feet, the comforting warmth of Phil’s legs on either side grounding him.

“Dad said you were newlyweds, but I can tell you’ve been together for awhile,” Christina said from where she sat with her wife, Amanda, on the couch to their left.

“Eleven years,” Phil said, since Clint’s mouth was full of some kind of delicious bacon-wrapped thing. He curved one hand loosely over where Clint’s neck met his shoulder, and Clint let himself lean into the touch.

“But this one didn’t even know I’d asked him out at first,” he added after he’d swallowed his food.

“Ohh, this sounds like a good story,” said the woman sitting across the round wicker coffee table. “I’m Katie, by the way. My husband Tim and I are your neighbors across the street.”

“Do you have to tell this story every time we meet people?” Phil asked, his voice mock exasperated.

“But it’s such a good one, babe,” Clint teased, lifting Phil’s hand from where it still rested on his shoulder and dropping a kiss on the knuckles.

“Fine,” Phil groaned. “I’ll just be up here, stuffing my face.”

“So anyway, I’m a writer,” Clint started. “And I needed to do some research on WWII history, and a writer friend of mine recommended Phil, so I reached out over email, but it turned out we lived really close to each other, so we ended up going out for coffee so I could pick his brain. When I saw him sitting there in his professor jacket and glasses, I just about swallowed my tongue.”

Clint glanced over his shoulder at Phil and was rewarded with flushed ears and a disbelieving look. He smiled back, letting enough heat show in his eyes to hopefully make his point.

“So how did you end up asking him out?” Amanda prompted, and Clint turned back toward his audience.

“It ended up being like two or three times we met for coffee, because we had so much fun just talking that we kept getting sidetracked,” he continued. “I wanted to ask him out the first time, but I chickened out. I figured somebody as hot and smart as Phil wouldn’t be interested in me. After awhile I knew I couldn’t stretch things out any further, though, so I worked up the nerve to ask him for dinner. But I guess I was too casual about it, cause he didn’t realize it was a date.”

Phil shook his head. “You literally said, ‘hey, I’m hungry, wanna get some food?’” he protested. “How was I supposed to know you meant a date?”

“When did you figure it out?” Christina asked, her eyes sparkling with amusement.

“Not until the goodnight kiss,” Phil admitted. “But I think I covered pretty well.”

Clint nodded. “He did. I didn’t realize until the third date, and by then it was something we could laugh over. But I still give him shit about it.”

“He does,” Phil confirmed dryly. “Constantly.”

“What can I say?” Clint shrugged expressively. “It’s fun.”

“What about the two of you?” Phil asked Christina and Amanda, deftly turning the conversation away from himself, and Clint settled back against the chair, surrounded by Phil, and returned his attention to his food.

Maybe this white picket fence stuff wasn’t so bad after all.

 


	7. Everything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just another day in suburbia...

“I just want you for my own,” Clint sang along in his remarkably mellow tenor, practically dancing across the kitchen as he loaded the dishwasher with the debris of his latest baking endeavor, his Christmas music playing through the wireless speakers in the kitchen. “More than you could ever know. Make my wish come true…”

Phil buried his head in his hands, trying his best to ignore the singing, dancing embodiment of holiday cheer in the kitchen and focus on the surveillance feed on his laptop.

Clint had fully submerged himself in their covers, not to mention throwing himself into holiday things with a fervor that shouldn’t have surprised Phil, given what he knew about Clint’s...nontraditional past. The house was festooned in holiday decorations (surprisingly tasteful ones, although they leaned to purple and silver, which would surprise absolutely no one who knew Clint) and Clint seemed to be on a personal mission to try out every Christmas cookie recipe known to humankind.

Given Phil’s weakness for baked goods, it was a good thing that the neighborhood kids had adopted their house as the afterschool hangout spot, led by Amanda and Christina’s sons, Cameron and Donavan, but rapidly expanding to all the teens and preteens who were old enough to be at home alone after school. They happily ate all of Clint’s cooking attempts, even the less successful ones, and spent a couple of hours killing time with the Playstation or the Xbox, or various homework or creative endeavors, before dispersing to their respective homes.

Phil both loved and hated it. He loved seeing Clint happy, the way he came alive with people to care for (and he’d made a note to get Clint involved in training the junior agents once they were back at SHIELD). Sometimes he was trash talking with the kids as they competed in shooter deathmatches or working together to solve the puzzles in Portal. Or he’d draw out even the shyest and most introverted ones until they were sitting at the kitchen table pouring out the details of their lives. And he always glowed with satisfaction as they enthusiastically complimented whatever he’d baked that day, cramming it into their mouths with the hunger that only teenagers who’d gone at least an hour since their last meal could feel.

But Phil hated it, too, deep in the small, selfish part of his soul that resented every minute that he didn’t have Clint’s attention. It was worse because they didn’t have a timeline. The mission could go on for months, or it could be over tomorrow. Phil wanted to gorge himself on Clint, take every touch and kiss and smile and store it away to sustain him later. Because no matter how fully he tried to submerge himself in his role, no matter how well he played the doting husband, he couldn’t quite let go of the last little part of himself that knew it wasn’t real. He was wound tight, unable to take the last step.

“All I want for Christmas is youuuuuu,” Clint caroled, pointing at Phil, and it snapped the last tenuous threads of Phil’s self-control.

“Do we have to listen to this shit every goddamn day?” he growled.

Clint flinched like he’d been hit, and Phil immediately felt even worse, seeing the uncomplicated joy on Clint’s face fade away to be replaced by hurt and shame. He was on his feet before he realized, grabbing Clint’s wrist as he pulled his phone out to turn off the playlist.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, pulling Clint into his arms. Clint went willingly, his body curving into Phil’s embrace without hesitation, his face buried in Phil’s shoulder, which made him feel even worse. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “I’m being an asshole. It’s not your fault, and I shouldn’t take it out on you.”

“I could play something else,” Clint said, but his voice was small and hesitant, and Phil cursed himself mentally.

“No,” he said firmly, rubbing soothing circles on Clint’s back. “I like it. I like seeing how happy it makes you. I’m just wound up because I don’t know when or if anything’s going to happen. It’s not your fault, and it’s not fair to yell at you just because the bad guys aren’t cooperating.”

Clint nodded a little against his shoulder. “It’s okay--”

“No it’s not,” Phil cut him off. “It’s not okay for me to use you as a punching bag for my frustrations. You deserve better than that.”

He could feel Clint opening his mouth to argue further, so he tipped Clint’s face up toward his and kissed him, softly and sweetly, pouring all his regret and longing into it, trying to communicate what he was feeling without words. When he finally pulled back, Clint was flushed, his pupils wide and dark, his mouth red from Phil’s kiss.

“You deserve everything,” Phil said softly, knowing that everything he felt was showing in his eyes, but unable to stop it.

Clint opened his mouth to reply, but before he could say anything, the doorbell rang.

Phil glanced over at his laptop screen and saw the feed of Cam, Donovan, and Katie and Tim’s daughter Alanna standing on the doorstep. “They’re heeere,” he singsonged, just for the pleasure of watching Clint grin at him before he pulled away to answer the door.

* * *

An hour later, Phil was dividing his attention between the surveillance feeds and the increasingly heated Super Smash Bros. match on the television screen. He was watching Clint fall off the stage for the fourth time to much heckling from the three teens on the couch (he was surprisingly bad at the game for someone with such good reflexes) when movement on the laptop screen snagged his attention.

The men slowly converging on Christina and Amanda’s house weren’t overtly suspicious, dressed as they were in winter coats over slacks and business shoes, but they were trying so hard to be inconspicuous that it made them as obvious to Phil’s trained eye as if they were each wearing a sign that said “Up To Something.” He watched for a minute, trying to decide if he could slip out and take care of things himself without the kids being any the wiser, but then one of the men tripped a little stepping up onto the curb, revealing an ankle holster with a sidearm.

Phil was moving before his brain had consciously processed what he saw, pressing his thumb to the latch of the lockbox hidden under the coffee table. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Clint snap to attention. “Clint,” he said calmly, pulling out the pistol in the box and loading a clip before putting the rest in his pockets and putting a short-range comm unit in his ear, tossing Clint the other one. “Get them to the safe room.”

“You got it, boss,” he heard Clint say over the clamor of three teenagers demanding to know what was going on, but he was already heading for the back door, resisting the urge for one last look back.

* * *

“Alright,” Clint said, calmly but with the snap of command he’d learned from Phil (who was headed out to deal with God knew what). “Everybody come with me.”

“What--” Cam started to say, but Donovan grabbed his brother’s arm in one hand and Alanna’s hand in the other and pulled them behind Clint into the kitchen. Clint opened the door to the walk-in pantry and stood back to let them go in before following them. He moved two boxes of rotini and three cans of stewed tomatoes to a higher shelf and pressed his thumb to the biometric lock on the wall, sliding the panel to the side to reveal the keypad and video screen showing the surveillance feed of the kitchen.

“I’m going to lock the door behind me,” Clint said, looking each of the kids in the eye. “You’ll be safe in here. As long as the door is closed, this room can withstand anything up to and including a bomb at point-blank. The door won’t open from in here without the code--028746387. You keep the door closed unless it’s me, Phil, or your parents out there. Got it?”

All three of them nodded reflexively, looking very young and scared. “Good,” Clint said. “Stay here.”

“Where are you going?” Donavan asked, his voice quavering a little.

Clint gave him what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “I’m going to go help Phil.”

He closed the pantry door behind him and input the lock code on the outer keypad, before retrieving his bow and his knives and heading for the upstairs window that would let him onto the roof. “Phil, talk to me,” he said, putting his comm in his ear, trying to fight a sense of dread from the role reversal.

“Three men,” Phil said tersely. “They just jimmied the lock to the Millers’ house. Both cars are gone, so I don’t think Amanda or Christina are there. I’m going in.

“Goddamnit, Phil,” Clint swore, swinging down from the low roof instead of climbing up. “Wait for me! I can be there in two minutes.”

“Sorry,” Phil said, grunting a little with effort. “They saw me. Subjects engaged.”

“Fuck,” Clint breathed, and ran faster.

* * *

Of course, by the time he made it to the Millers’ house, all three attackers were on the kitchen floor hogtied with their own belts, various cuts and bruises on what was visible of their skin, and Phil was on the phone, looking just the same as when he left their house, not even breathing hard.

“Yes, sir,” he said as Clint came in the door. “They had restraints for four people, so it appears that they were planning on kidnapping.”

Clint’s fingers clenched on his bow and he saw red for a moment, imagining Amanda, Christina, Cam and Donovan in restraints, possibly thrown in the back of a van and taken away before anyone realized it. He forced himself to take deep breaths and step back from the bound men.

“Yes,” Phil was saying. “Understood. But...yes. Yes. All right.” He hung up the phone and took a deep breath of his own before stepping toward Clint.

“The backup team found their getaway driver,” he said. “Fury’s going to turn them over to the Secret Service, since this is really their gig. We’re to stay here until their team arrives, and to explain it to Christina and Amanda.”

Clint let out a breath that was definitely not a sigh. “I guess our cover’s pretty well blown.”

“Yeah,” Phil agreed, his tone as even as ever, but there was something in his eyes Clint wasn’t used to seeing. “Hopefully the fact that there was actually an attempt will convince Christina to accept a protection detail, at least until the bill passes and some of the furor dies down.”

“She’s not stupid,” Clint said. “She’ll want her family to be safe.”

Phil nodded. “Speaking of which, you should probably let them know that they’ll be in the safe room for a little longer.”

Clint nodded, pulling out his phone, and went into the living room before opening the app that allowed him to connect to the video screen in the safe room. He reassured the teenagers that everything was fine for the time being, but convinced them to stay in the safe room for a little longer, just in case the incompetents they’d captured hadn’t been the only team sent out.

He had just finished the call and returned to the kitchen when Christina came in through the door from the garage and stopped dead. Clint tried to envision the scene through her eyes: three strange men bound on the kitchen floor, Clint with his bow, Phil with his sidearm. He braced himself for a hysterical reaction, but Christina just crossed her arms across her chest and raised her eyebrows. “What’s this?” she asked, her eyes sharp and suspicious.

Phil cleared his throat. “We’re agents with the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division…” he began, and Clint let the words wash over him, slowly detaching himself from his undercover persona.

The mission was over.


	8. Real

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back home after the mission, Clint and Phil have to make a decision.

“These cowards came after my family,” Christina said from the TV on the wall. “Because they disagreed with my father, because we didn’t fit within their narrow definition of a family, they were going to kidnap us and threaten us until my father withdrew his support for the bill that would guarantee protection under the law for the millions of Americans with same-sex partners.”

Christina’s face was replaced by an appropriately solemn newscaster. “That was the scene today as Senator Miller held a press conference regarding the kidnapping attempt on his daughter and her family. Authorities are investigating, but…”

Clint turned the TV off and sank back on his couch, trying to ignore how empty his apartment felt. There were no little signs of another person, no glasses folded on the end table, only one set of shoes inside the front door. He couldn’t stop himself from replaying that last moment alone in the kitchen--Phil’s soft, tender kiss, the warmth of his embrace, the look in his eyes when he said “You deserve everything.” In that moment, Clint had believed him absolutely.

All of a sudden, Clint couldn’t stand the emptiness one more minute. He grabbed a container of cookies from the kitchen counter, threw on a hoodie and shoved his feet into his combat boots without bothering to tie them, and headed out the door--then immediately came back in to get his keys from the counter so he could lock the door.

He was in such a hurry that he almost ran into Natasha as he came out the door of his building.

“Going somewhere?” she asked, eyebrows raised.

“Oh, shit,” Clint said, remembering. “It’s Christmas Eve.”

“Happens every year on December 24th,” she agreed.

Clint shook his head to clear it. “Sorry, Nat. I can’t this year. I have to go. I have to find Phil.”

Natasha pulled him into a fierce hug. “About fucking time,” she said when she released him. “Go.”

He rushed down the street to the subway, trying frantically to keep moving fast enough that all the doubts and fears that had held him silent for so long couldn’t keep up.

It wasn’t until he was standing outside of Phil’s door that it occurred to him that Phil might not be home. He stood there, frozen with indecision, but just as he was about to turn and walk away, the door opened.

* * *

Phil’s apartment was too big. He’d never thought it was before, but now it seemed like a vast, echoing space. There were no cheerful purple-and-silver Christmas decorations, no scent of cinnamon and sugar or chocolate or whatever else Clint had decided to bake filled the air. Most of all, there was no Clint singing cheesy Christmas songs at the top of his lungs as he moved around the kitchen, or bringing Phil a cup of coffee in the morning, or wrapping himself around Phil at night as they fell asleep.

Phil tried to work, despite the fact that Fury had given both of them a week off after the end of their mission. But he’d already completed his post-mission report, since it was something he could do in his sleep, and Jasper still had all of his operations from before the mission well in hand. He tried watching Dog Cops, but that just reminded him of sitting on the couch with Clint in his arms.

Finally, Phil gave up, dragging on a jacket and shoes and grabbing his keys. He opened the door and stood there, frozen, not entirely sure that he wasn’t hallucinating. Clint’s hair was rumpled like he’d been running his hands through it, his hoodie was inside out, and his boots weren’t tied. And all Phil wanted was to hold him tight and never let go.

Clint’s face fell when he saw the keys in Phil’s hands. “Oh, shit, you were going somewhere. Sorry, I’ll--”

He turned as if to go, and Phil’s hand shot out and grabbed his wrist before he realized he was moving, pulling Clint into the apartment. “No, please come in.”

“But you were going somewhere--” Clint protested.

Phil closed the door safely behind Clint, locking it for good measure. “I was going to find you,” he said softly, turning to face Clint.

“Oh,” Clint said, flushing. “I was--uh, I had some cookies left over. I thought I’d, ah, see if you wanted some.” He held out the plastic container, and Phil took it and set it on the table in the entryway, his heart sinking.

“That’s nice of you,” he said, plastering on a pleasant mask. “Do you want a beer?”

Clint shrugged. “Yeah, sure.” He wandered toward the couch, plopping down on it as Phil made his way into the kitchen and grabbed two beers from the fridge. He popped the lids off and tossed them in the trash before heading back into the living room, handing one beer to Clint before sinking down on the opposite corner of the couch.

They sat in not altogether comfortable silence for a few minutes before Phil realized something. “It’s Christmas Eve,” he said. “Don’t you and Natasha usually have a thing?”

Clint swallowed his beer. “Yeah, usually, but…” he took a deep breath and turned to face Phil. “I needed to come see you.”

Phil blinked, trying not to let himself hope. “What for?” he asked quietly.

“I…” Clint raised his eyes to Phil. “I miss you,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I miss being married to you. I know it wasn’t real, but it felt like the most real thing in my whole life. I’m even still wearing the stupid fake ring, because I couldn’t stand to take it off. I know you’re probably not--”

Phil lifted his left hand into view, and Clint stopped talking when he saw the glint of silver on Phil’s ring finger. “I couldn’t take it off either,” he said. “Not after finally getting to be with you, like I didn’t think I ever could.”

Clint moved closer, taking Phil’s hand and lacing their fingers together. “I want to kiss you,” he said hoarsely. “For real, not pretending. Can I?”

Phil nodded, sliding a hand around the back of Clint’s neck and pulling him in until their lips met.

It was strangely familiar. Phil knew which way Clint would tilt his head and how to lean in so that they wouldn’t bump noses. He knew the taste of Clint’s mouth and the warmth of his skin. But it was also new, because there wasn’t a part of Phil’s brain reminding him that it was for the mission, that it was all pretend. This was real, this Clint parting his lips under Phil’s, moaning into the kiss. It was real.

Phil pulled back a little, just enough to look into Clint’s eyes. “Are you sure?” he forced himself to ask. “Maybe you liked being married, but you could find that with anyone, Clint. Do you really want--”

“The man I’ve had a ridiculous, hopeless crush on for eleven years?” Clint interrupted. “The incredibly handsome man who’s been starring in my fantasies? I’ve been married, Phil; remember Bobbi? I don’t just want to be married.

“I know what I want,” he said, standing up and holding out a hand to Phil. “I want you. Let me show you?”

Phil took the offered hand and let Clint lead him down the hall to the bedroom.

* * *

A few hours later, they were lying half-asleep in Phil’s bed, when Clint’s stomach grumbled.

“We should get up,” Phil said, his hand stroking lazily up and down Clint’s back.

“No, ‘sfine,” Clint mumbled into Phil’s neck. “Just ignore it. Not worth putting on pants.”

His stomach chose that moment to rumble even louder.

“Didn’t you say something about cookies?” Phil asked.

Clint brightened. “You’re right. That wouldn’t require pants.”

He pushed the covers back, already missing Phil’s warmth, and padded across the floor to the door. He couldn’t resist turning to look at Phil, who was smiling after him with an expression that was almost as soft as the sappy smile he could feel on his own face as he went out the door.

He found the cookies and rummaged through Phil’s cabinets to find glasses, pouring them each a glass of milk before heading back into the bedroom and presenting his finds with a flourish. “Ta-da!”

“Oh, no,” Phil said sternly, the effect somewhat ruined by the sappy smile on his face. “You are not eating cookies in my bed, Barton.”

“Awww, c’mon, babe,” Clint wheedled. “It’s a special occasion. You know you love me.”

“I do,” Phil agreed calmly, and Clint’s heart did a backflip. “But there are lines, and cookie crumbs in the bed is a hard line.”

“You love me?” Clint said almost inaudibly, the cookies and his stomach forgotten.

Phil’s face softened even more. “I love you, Clint Barton,” he said, slowly and surely, his eyes steady on Clint’s. “I’ve loved you for a long time. I’m sorry I was too much of a coward to tell you that before.”

Clint set the cookies and milk down on the bedside table and crawled back into the bed and into Phil’s waiting embrace. “I love you, too, Phil,” he said, resting his head on Phil’s shoulder. “I’ve loved you for so long I don’t even know when it started. I can’t remember ever not loving you.”

Phil dropped a kiss on the top of his head, holding him tighter. They stayed that way for several long moments, until Clint’s stomach rumbled again and he lifted his head to give Phil his most winning smile.

“What if I make it worth your while?”

* * *

In another city, Nick Fury’s phone buzzed on top of his desk. He swiped at it without really looking, glanced over at the screen, and almost dropped it on the floor when a picture of Coulson and Barton, naked except for a sheet draped across their laps and kissing passionately, filled the screen.

When he finally managed to close the picture, the text part of the message popped up.

** Cheese: Thanks for the assist. We’ll be back after New Years’ **

The phone buzzed again and another message popped up.

** Romanoff: You locked me out of the pool **

** Fury: You ain’t cheating, you ain’t trying **

He smiled as he set the phone back on his desk and turned back to his computer. “About fucking time.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we have it! I hope you enjoyed the ride!!!


End file.
